


A Lover's Worth

by Enigma3000



Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gay, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, aman beta maaf kardo, but only at the end, husbands fighting :(, this is so angst im sorry, yes. very gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25107766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigma3000/pseuds/Enigma3000
Summary: "Answer me, Aman,It demands once more,Is the hiding, the facade, the struggle to keep your hands to yourself- is it all worth being with him?"Five times Aman Tripathi wonders if all this pain is worth the love, and the one time he asks the right question
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Comments: 27
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> **Kya hua?:** what happened?  
>  **Simran kaun?:** simran who?

It sneaks up on him, that dreaded voice.

As voices often tend to do. 

The damn thing catches him off guard, hooks him in the gut with a sharp punch before he registers what’s happening, and leaves Aman gasping for breath. 

He’s seated at the back of his motorcycle  _ (their, _ he reminds himself.  _ Not just his anymore), _ staring blankly at Kartik’s back. His head is empty, but the good kind of empty. The kind of quietness that follows a dinner date with your boyfriend of… six weeks, now. The kind of quietness that’s born of contentment, rather than fear.

Aman sighs against the wind blowing in his hair, leans forward ever-so-slightly, and wraps his arms around the inviting waist in front of him

And then he hears it. 

He hears the voice that's hauntingly similar to the one that's plagued his every waking moment for as long as he can remember.

_ You’re in public,  _ the voice says. _ What if someone sees you? _

It’s a quiet voice, the one he hears. It’s shy, and shaky, and tragically familiar.

It’s the same one he’s heard his entire life. Every decision he has ever made, every step he has ever taken, the voice had been right by his side, modelling the dictionary definition of loyalty. Every belief woven into his heart, every leap of faith, all marred by the  crippling doubt this voice brought into him.

Aman has learned to ignore it, of course he has. His only other alternative would have been to let the voice and all the terrible things it says consume him. And that is unthinkable.

This time, however, it wins. Unfortunately.

And Aman draws back like he’s been jolted with a live wire.

“Kya hua?” Kartik asks, his tone concerned and so, so gentle. He’d begun to enjoy Aman’s arms around his waist, brief as the moment was. He wants them back.

Aman smiles in lieu of a hushed apology, hastily makes up something about Kartik’s helmet pressing into his forehead, and settles his hands back on the handle behind him. Far, far away from where they really want to be.

When his fingers wrap reluctantly around the cold metal of the handle, he hears the second voice.

_ Is the hiding really worth it? _

This one is louder, more demanding. This one doesn’t just send a shiver down Aman’s spine. It puts a repulsive twist in his stomach and a pressing weight against his lungs.

Aman doesn’t recognise this voice. He wants it to leave.

It doesn’t.

_ Answer me, Aman,  _ It demands once more,  _ Is the hiding, the facade, the struggle to keep your hands to yourself- is it all worth being with him? _

He pretends he can't hear it.

_ Stop trying to pretend you can't hear me, love, _ it coos. The sickly sweet term of endearment makes his innards twist. 

_ Is something worth having if you're forced to behave like you don't have it? _

It's a question he's asked himself before. Of course it is. In a world where people like him weren't allowed to exist, happiness becomes a risk. Perhaps even a liability. 

And yet, it’s a question that strikes him to his very core and leaves him lost. Because It’s a question he’s never considered with Kartik up until now, hasn’t dared to consider with him before. And Aman feels like he’s standing at the edge of a blazing ship, contemplating the terrifying waters below. He feels like he’s been stabbed. He isn’t entirely isn’t sure he wants to pull the knife out. He isn’t sure he wants to take the plunge.

He isn’t sure he wants to answer. 

But the voice insists.

Aman clenches his teeth, wills his stomach to stop churning, and replies. It’s rushed, non committal, hell it’s barely even an answer. But he decides it’s enough. For now.

_ Doesn’t matter, _ he tells the voice.  _ Too early to decide. _

The voice goes quiet. 


	2. Chapter 2

The second time he hears it, they’re outside a club, and Aman barely makes out the words over the mind numbingly loud music blaring from the speakers. Albeit muffled, to some extent, by the space the brick walls of the club put between them and the noisy, exhilerated strangers inside.

Aman tripathi, for the life of him, hadn’t ever thought he would find himself being kissed in a darkened alleyway. Slowly, lazily, with the sort of achingly tender passion that made his heart race and shut his brain right down. But it’s happening, as much as he can’t believe it is. And Aman finds that he doesn’t entirely mind. To say the least.

No, that wasn’t fair, he supposed. He’s done this before.

He never thought he would have _initiated_ a kiss in a darkened alleyway, would be a more accurate way of putting it. He never thought he would be the one dragging his boyfriend out back, that he would be the one to pull someone close by the shirt to plaster his eager mouth on theirs.

He smiles against that familiar stubble, traces his lips along Kartik's wonderfully soft ones, the pleased movements of Kartik’s jaw mirroring his. Equally gentle and unhurried. Like they have all the time in the world. 

Aman’s arm snakes lower, lower down Kartik’s back until he’s drawing a surprised laugh from the man nipping away at the sharp curve of Aman’s jaw. It’s a quiet, rather adorable sound, and Aman thanks the stars that he doesn't miss it over the _beat, beat, beat_ coming from indoors. Or perhaps, from his own heart. 

He can’t really tell anymore.

Kartik pulls back, and Aman notices one of his lovably bushy eyebrows raised in equal parts amusement and surprise.

A wordless question hangs between them. One that doesn’t really need to be asked. Because they both know the answer.

Aman answers him anyway.

“Don’t get used to this,” Aman laughs, his teasing words ever-so-slightly slurred by the alcohol running rampant through his veins, “I only make questionable decisions when I’m-”

Or at least, he tries to answer, when the sound of distant laughter from just beyond the alley forces his voice to die in his throat. 

And that’s when it returns.

_Scared, Aman?_ The voice says, revoltingly smug

Aman’s breath freezes right in his lungs.

He swallows the terror building in his chest, looks down at the arms lying comfortably on his waist, and Aman pushes blindly at the figure in front of him. Too hard, much too hard, Kartik stumbles backwards and nearly falls over 

_(nearly, only nearly, thank god)_

He watches in horror as Kartik clumsily steadies himself on the brick wall behind him, and even in the darkness, Aman catches his pained wince. There's going to be a nasty scrape on Kartik's palm. He knows there is.

Aman swallows. And waits. Steeling himself for what's to come next is second nature to him.

He expects Kartik to be angry, as who wouldn’t be? Who wouldn’t be mad at someone who was kissing them one moment, and shoving them hard enough to (almost) cause harm the next?

All Kartik does, however, is stare at him in confusion, follow his petrified gaze to the end of the alley, and sigh resignedly in understanding.

Somehow, this hurts worse than anger.

And as if the fear wasn’t enough, guilt hits Aman like a truck out of absolutely nowhere. 

He hurt Kartik.

The combined attack is nearly enough to send his knees buckling under him. Or it would have been, once upon a time. He’d faced this enough to fight it off, now. To a degree, anyway.

Until the voice speaks up once more.

_Think about it, Aman. Is this worth it?_

His blood rushes to his face.

_No, no, I don’t want to, STOP-_

_Is the possibility of getting caught worth it? Is this suffocating fear worth it?_

_STOP, PLEASE-_

_Is hurting him worth it?_

_I DIDN'T DO IT ON PURPOSE-_

_Is the guilt that comes with this fear worth it?_

Aman clenches his teeth, and suddenly, the cold in his nerves make way for raw, unbridled rage.

_IT DOESN’T MATTER,_ he screams silently, _IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER._

He finds himself being propelled, by his own pressing regret, and feels a familiar prick behind his eyes when he sees Kartik inching backward. 

Away from him.

“Hey, no, it’s okay." Kartik smiles, clutching his wrist.

_It isn't, it isn't, don't say it is._

"I get it. Let's keep our distance, yeah? I won’t touch you till we get home, I prom-”

Aman cuts him off with a hug.

It should’ve been a kiss. He wants it to be a kiss. But this, for now, is all he can manage without feeling the pressure of terror deep in his heart. So he settles for a hug.

Kartik’s arms are up around him instantly.

“Take me home?” Aman says, the slight tremor in his voice hidden in Kartik’s shoulder.

He does.


	3. Chapter 3

Someone offers him a glass of rose milk, and Aman politely waves the platter-bearing stranger away. He can barely hold down his own bile, right now. A moderate sized glassful of a beverage he didn’t have any special liking for was beyond his limit.

He averts his eyes and turns his gaze back to the man in the middle of the hall, the one dancing like he was having the time of his life, laughing with people he hadn’t once seen before like he’d known them since his first breath.

Aman stares longingly at his boyfriend, and for once, it isn’t in ocean deep fondness. All he feels, watching Kartik get swarmed from all sides by people, is nauseating jealousy.

He hates feeling this way. 

Hates himself for feeling this way. 

Feeling this inadequate, this out of place, this resentful- when, in reality, he should’ve been thankful to Kartik for dragging him to experience something he never had before.

* * *

_“You’ve... never been to a punjabi wedding?” Kartik asked, unbridled horror dripping from his voice._

_Aman frowned, then, utterly confused as to why his lack of experience with punjabi weddings was worth dropping your glass of chai over (granted, Kartik had checked to see it was his plastic glass before dramatically letting it slip from his fingers, but still-)_

_“No…" he raised a tentative eyebrow._

_"...Why-?”_

_“Why? WHY?” Kartik clamped his hand over his mouth, “Wow, my boyfriend doesn’t know what fun looks like. This is so sad, oh my god-”_

_Aman rolled his eyes and smiled, his mind still lingering on “boyfriend”. Kartik could be so ridiculous, sometimes. Endearingly so._

_“That’s it, you’re coming to Simran’s wedding.”_

_Aman blinked._

_“Simran kaun…?”_

_“Arey, Devika’s friend. You’re coming as my plus one. I don’t want to hear it.”_

_“I wasn’t going to protest-”_

_“I SAID I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT.”_

_Aman blinked twice, his expression rendered neutral by his inability to choose between annoyance and amusement. Until Kartik shot him an utterly goofy thumbs up._

_He laughed, dragged Kartik in by the loops of his belt, and that was that._

* * *

Aman watches Kartik wink at him from fifty feet away, and his answering smile is tenuous and insincere.

He can’t help but think back to all those times, as a boy, when he would watch his family merge seamlessly with the crowd, while he quietly hung around at the very back of the hall. Just looking on, in quiet envy, wondering why he didn’t have it in him to be as free as they could.

Aman would wish desperately, during those times, for the day he wouldn’t be forced into the shadows by a prison of his own making. 

And that day had indeed come. He was no longer as awkward as he used to be. No longer felt as out of place as he used to feel. 

But, as history often does, it seems to be repeating itself this evening. 

Kartik, to his credit, had tried his best to stay by Aman’s side the entire time they had been there. But eventually, he had been dragged out to the dance floor, as people like him tend to be. And Aman had politely refused to join him, as people like him tend to do.

He watches Kartik say something to the women next to him, watches the two of them laugh that breezy laugh only Kartik ever manages to draw out of people, and feels bitter resentment rise to his throat. He's never been the life of the party, and it gets to him sometimes, as much as he wishes it wouldn't.

He wonders, for the hundredth time over the past few months, how two people so different could ever be happy with each other _(how someone as lively as Kartik could ever be happy with him)._

He closes his eyes, tries to will the sickening feeling away. He can't. 

And it’s in that moment, when he’s at his lowest, that the voice decides to attack him again. 

As the goddamn thing so loved to do.

_No no, hang on, that’s a good question_ , the voice says, and some small part of Aman knows instantly that it isn’t a very good question at all.

_God, not again,_ He grimaces. 

If Aman were to make a list of all the things he possibly could need right then, the fucking voice would be at the absolute end.

The voice marches on, unperturbed.

_But it also begs another question, Aman: is watching him inevitably walk away someday worth being with him?_

Aman frowns.

_What do you mean?_

The voice sighs in frustration, and Aman clenches his teeth. Hard.

_How long before he wakes up one day, and realises he can do better? How long before he looks at you, and only sees what you don’t have? How long until you wake up to an empty bed, and he wakes up in the arms of someone who deserves him?_

He doesn’t respond. Because, as much as he loathes to admit it, Aman is uncertain. He knows he doesn’t need to be, he knows all he needs to do is dwell on these questions for but a few seconds before the answer presents itself. For better or for worse.

But he doesn’t want to. Thinking about it makes the possibility seem all the more real. 

So he doesn’t.

_He won’t_ , Aman insists childishly, dreading the question he already knew would come next.

_Why not?_

He takes a deep breath. 

_Because Kartik loves me,_ Aman says, his voice laden with the sort of blind faith that he wasn’t entirely sure he felt. It’s a faith that’s shaky at best and unfounded at worst, but it’s faith nonethless

The voice relents. If there was one thing in the universe that couldn’t be shot down by reason, it was heartfelt trust. 

Aman has won the battle, he knows he has. He let himself revel in this small victory, however momentarily.

The battle, perhaps, but not the war. The voice won’t ever let him have the war.

_Do you really love him?_ It speaks up again, and throws Aman violently off. He takes a second to make sense of his surroundings, before asking something in return.

_What the hell does that mean?_

_My, you’re really not at your brightest today, are you?_ It teases, and Aman loathes the condescension in its tone.

_If you really loved him with all your heart, would there be any room in it for jealousy?_

The question puts a two ton weight in his chest, but it’s a weight that isn’t all anxiety. There’s something else to it. He can tell.

Something Aman can’t quite place yet, although it feels just as dense. And it forces tears into his eyes all the same.

_Is this resentment, this jealousy, really worth it? Is feeling so small next to someone who’s supposed to be your equal, even minutely worth being with them? Can you really love someone you resent?_

He recognises the feeling now.

It’s anger.

Anger, that even after so long, even after he’s spent six goddamn months envisioning an entire life with this man, the voice feels like it’s allowed to ask as disgusting a question as that. 

Anger that, even after they’d bared their souls to each other, even after they’d spent all that time soothing the scars on their hearts that were left behind by people more unkind than themselves, the voice has the goddamn audacity to question the love that exists between them.

He loves Kartik so much that it _hurts_.

And he won’t let anyone- any _thing-_ suggest otherwise.

_No, no, that’s not fair,_ he urges the tears back in.

_I love him. I fucking love him more than i’ve ever loved anyone else. That’s all that fucking matters._

The voice doesn't give up.

_Aman, that’s not what I’m asking and you know it-_

_Shut up, shut the hell up, I love him, and he loves me, and that’s all I care about_

_We both know that could change, is the potential pain worth what you have-_

Aman licks his lower lip, and his eyes dart around the room when he realises he's lost track of Kartik. He's moved places. But he's still out in the crowd.

When he catches the glint of that dazzling red sherwani, Aman allows himself a small smile.

_I don’t give a shit._

The finality in his own voice leaves him surprised.

_For god’s sake, answer the damn ques- DON’T FUCKING IGNORE ME, Aman-_

_Go fuck yourself,_ he spits visciously at the voice, suddenly kicking himself into motion. 

He lets the music flood his brain, lets it drown out the voices both from within and outside. His feet carry him fluidly forward, a man with a newfound sense of purpose. He can’t give half a damn for what the voice has to say. It doesn’t matter. 

All that matters is the man in the centre of the hall, the one who catches Aman’s piercing gaze and immediately adopts a delightfully playful smile. All that matters is the way Kartik stops dancing without realising it, as if transfixed by the man he loves more than life itself. All that matters is his outstretched arm, reaching for Aman and Aman alone _(as he always has, as he always would)._

All that matters is the way Kartik looks at him, like nobody else in the room exists.

He takes Kartik’s hand, and loses himself


	4. Chapter 4

He glances at the cuckoo clock on the wall, and when his gaze comes away, it’s drenched in a mixture of regret and panic.

Kartik hasn’t come home in two hours.

Usually, he doesn’t give something like this a second thought. Kartik was a grown man. Aman doesn’t need to know his whereabouts every time he steps out, suggesting otherwise would be insanity. That wasn’t the cause of his worry.

It was the fact that they’d had a terrible fight before he just up and left, without a word

No, this wasn’t their first fight, or second, or even third. But it was the worst fight they’d had yet.

_He’ll be back,_ his heart tells him.

_Of course he will_ , his mind concurs.

_This was his place first. He’ll make you move out._

Aman’s stomach sinks lower, and he allows himself an indulgent chuckle upon wondering if that’s even possible. If it's even minutely possible for the terror he's feeling to manifest physically any further than it already has. 

He’s been sitting at their _(theirs, please, let it still be theirs)_ dining table for about an hour now, fingers tapping away at the surface, leg tapping away on the ceramic floor, like it’ll bring him some semblance of relief. Before that, he was pacing their living room like some sort of deranged wind up toy.

And before that, he was watching Kartik’s back as it disappeared out the door, the pair of them choking back tears that demanded to be shed.

Aman looks around the far too empty, far too quiet apartment they share, and he’s met with a realisation that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth:

He has nobody but himself to blame.

All Kartik had asked for was a chance to be known. For a chance to exist outside their apartment, even if it was just as a friend. All he had asked for was to be introduced to Aman’s family, as a roommate. Not for Aman to come out to them (Kartik would never).

It was Aman’s anxiety, Aman’s stupid, irrational need to keep the life he loves separate from the life he used to live, that kept him from making his family back home _(no, not home, back in allahabad)_ aware of Kartik’s existence. It was the void in his chest telling him that if he let his worlds get too close, they would inevitably collide. 

And leave Aman in pieces.

* * *

_“I mean that little to you?” Kartik asked, with his hands in his pockets and fire in his eyes._

_“You won’t even acknowledge my presence in your life?”_

_Aman didn’t know how to explain. Didn’t know what to say. So he did what he had been doing in the face of conflict for god knows how long-_

_He went quiet._

_Hoped his silence would make things better. Even if it was only marginally._

_And he’d stayed quiet, when Kartik had flashed him a look so disturbingly hurt, so frighteningly enraged, and then simply walked out._

* * *

Aman looks at the clock once more.

It’s moved ten minutes. 

He’s struck with the horrible thought, yet again, that he’s effectively ruined his most loving relationship beyond repair. That this is probably the final straw, the final snap of the strings that bound them.

And it’s in this moment, when he’s at his most vulnerable, that the voice re-appears. 

As it always does.

_Is this painful wait worth it, Aman?_ It whispers

He ignores it. 

(He tries to ignore it.) 

Of course this wait is worth it. Of course it is. Kartik would be on the other side of this tunnel Aman has forced himself into, as he always is.

But the voice persists.

_Don’t be shy. Tell me. Is the potential agony of losing him someday worth it?_

He taps his fingers harder.

_Is the inevitable loss worth the love?_

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even want to answer. Because the truth is, he’s never been more unsure than he is in this moment. Yes, a little pondering and the answer may come to him, favourable or otherwise, but the more he thinks about it, the more palpable the reality of Kartik leaving him becomes.

So, once again, he refuses to think about it. Just pretends he can’t hear the voice, or its pitying chuckle, and goes back to letting his fingers curl painfully into the tablecloth to the point of developing cramps.

Until he hears a slow, hesitant knock on the door, and he’s swinging it open in an instant.

It’s the apologetic smile on Kartik’s face that puts the tears in his eyes, yes. But it’s the flowers in Kartik’s hand that send them streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry," Kartik says slowly, and Aman's heart clenches, "I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn't have said I don't mean anything- I know you love me, Aman, it's the one thing I'm sure of. I'm sorry, you shouldn’t have to tell anyone about me- _mmf”_

Aman’s drinking from him like a man parched, before the flowers even hit the ground.

He knows Kartik deserves to hear his side too, he knows there’s far too much left unsaid on his side of the conversation. He knows he probably ought to sit this wonderful man down and make it clear just how big a space he occupies in Aman’s heart, his life, his every waking thought. And he will. His conscience won’t rest until he does.

But Aman also knows that Kartik isn’t leaving (not right now, anyway), and that is enough in this moment.

He feels tears on his face that aren’t his own, and Aman mumbles his own quiet apology against Kartik’s lips. It’s not nearly what he’s owed, no. But it’s all Aman can think to do right now. All he can do to push away the voice still asking those dreaded questions which make every cell in his body fill with guilt.

Guilt that he even has the audacity to ask something like this.

_Are the secrets worth it?_ The voice taunts him, _Is the pain you bring each other worth it?_

Aman barely hears it over Kartik’s hoodie coming unzipped under his fingers, but he answers nonetheless

_It has to be,_ he says dismissively, deepening the kiss as far as he can.

The voice sighs in frustration.


	5. Chapter 5

The fifth time the voice comes, it leaves victorious.

It catches him at his weakest. In his most pained state. 

Aman Tripathi is nearly doubled over in agony, and he’s in pain that isn’t even his own.

It all happens in slow motion.

Aman stands there, frozen in horror as his father raises the staff above his head with the intention to bring it down with as much force as his arms will allow. 

He wants to look away, wants to bury his face in his hands and pretend none of this is happening. He wants to pretend the man he loves isn’t being put through torture for merely straying from the norm. For daring to be proud of himself in the face of malice.

Like he isn't enduring all this pain for  _ Aman _ .

He wants to look away.

He can’t.

So Aman watches.

He watches his grandfather’s staff meet the arms he calls home, and the scream that rips from his throat is cut short by the impact of his chacha’s forceful arms coming up around his chest. The wind is knocked right out of his lungs before he registers what's happening, and the rest of his scream comes out in a pained wheeze.

And it’s in that half second before another scream erupts from him, that he hears that infernal voice again.

_ No, please, _ he begs uselessly.

_ Please, not now. _

The voice doesn’t listen to him. 

When has it ever?

_ Look at him, Aman,  _ it whispers in his ear _ , Is all of this really worth it?  _

A pigeon flies past his ear, almost mocking his struggle against the arms that hold him back.

_ look how he’s hurting.  _

The end of that sentence is punctuated by another scream. Not his, no. It’s Kartik’s.

Aman wishes it was his. He wishes to hell and back that it was him in Kartik’s place, accepting blow after blow for his boyfriend’s sake. 

(Anything for love, wasn’t it? That’s what Kartik always said)

_ Is this pain worth it? _ The voice asks, infuriatingly reminiscent of a petulant child insistent upon receiving its answer, no matter how many times it needs to repeat itself.

_ Stop, please, just- _

It asks the dreaded question again. Except this time, there’s a peculiar lilt to its tone. A certain aura of confidence that drives Aman insane and puts knots in his stomach, an aura that makes his vision blur with tears and forces bile into his throat.

An aura which suggests its question won’t go unanswered this time.

He loathes that it’s right.

_ Tick Tock, Aman. We don’t have all day. _

Another blow strikes Kartik’s back. Aman’s knees nearly give way under him.

_ He certainly doesn’t, _ it teases.

It’s right. It’s obviously right. Aman has its answer ready as much as he wishes he didn’t. And yet, right as it is, Aman has never been one to go down without a fight. He tries to push back against it, push the voice back from the hellish depths of his mind from whence it came, and fails rather miserably. 

It won’t budge.

_ ANSWER ME, _ it screams, and Aman blinks away burning tears.

_ FUCKING ANSWER ME. IS THIS PAIN WORTH IT? _

He tries to block it out.

But blocking out the voices from within opens him up to those that come from outside. The agonised screaming coming from the love of his life, the sickening sound of wood hitting flesh, the sound of Aman’s own alien howl  _ (he never screamed, never liked raising his voice) _ as he struggled helplessly against his chacha’s arms.

He’s always been the smallest. The weakest. The easiest to subdue  _ (yelling, yelling at him was all it took, how weak-) _

_ IS ALL THIS PAIN WORTH IT?  _

The wince that starts on his face passes through his entire body as a deep shudder. He would’ve fallen to the ground, had it not been for the vice-like hold around his chest.

_ Yes, _ Aman says, for the alternative is much too lowly and disgusting to admit to. 

_ Yes. Yes it is. _

_ Liar, _ he hears back.

Perhaps it is a lie. Perhaps he was clouding his own vision with an illusion that would break any second now. 

But for now, it would do. For now, that illusion kept him in his place, kept him fighting recklessly against shackles both mental and physical, for the man whose chest Aman sought comfort in was quickly developing ugly bruises of purple.

_ Purple, _ he mused, closing his eyes to avoid watching Kartik clutch helplessly at his arm.

_ Spirit? Isn’t that what it stood for? _

Spirit. Of which Kartik had plenty, and apparently Aman had none.

The voice doesn't stop  _ (why won't it fucking stop).  _ He wishes he had half the tenacity it possesses. This time, when it speaks again, it poses him a question that halts his movements for a split second, temporarily forces him out of reality.

_ Is _ his _ pain worth it? _

Aman wasn't expecting that.

The voice, smug with the knowledge that it's caught him off guard, continues slowly forcing its knife into Aman's already weakened chest.

_ Is Kartik's pain worth it, Aman? Are the bruises worth it? Is the screaming worth it? _

He stops to consider. But deep down, he already knows the answer. 

And he fucking hates it.

_ No, _ he chokes back a sob, swallows it down and lets it press painfully against his lungs in the process.

_ Never. _

The voice goes silent.

His heart doesn't. It wails pathetically, begs him to reconsider.

He doesn't.

The staff clatters noisily to the ground, and he allows himself a moment of relief before the weight of his admission hits him in full force and leaves him gasping.

_ Kartik’s pain isn’t worth it. _

Aman watches Kartik spread his arms out, wonders how he could possibly believe so devoutly in their love, so devoutly in  _ Aman _ . He wonders how anyone could be this certain of Aman's love, when Aman himself was utterly incapable of doing so.

He's running before he realises it.

Not into Kartik's arms, no. Reality was rarely that simple.

As much as his heart screamed for him to turn, screamed that he was going the wrong way, his legs took him in the direction of the stairs to his room.

His room, where he could end this, once and for all. Where he could write a letter agreeing to the godforsaken wedding without having to hide the tears already making their way down his face. Where he could sink to the ground, curl up against the door with his knees to his chest and let wave upon wave of guilt crash into him as he wilfully stepped into the prison his parents  _ (the world) _ had designed for him.

_ Coward, _ his heart spits at him.

He doesn’t disagree.


	6. The Right Question

The last time it appears, it doesn’t sneak up on him. it announces its arrival from a mile away, gives Aman the time he needs to prepare himself, gives him time to welcome it with open arms.

And yet, it appears with a question so strikingly different that Aman scarcely recognises it at first. It’s similar, on the surface. But what lies beneath is infinitely different from anything else it’s asked him before.

It’s five minutes to midnight, when he hears distant whispering. It comes from within himself. Aman has an inkling of what it could be, but he chooses not to dwell on it. He prefers the blissful silence of their bedroom to whatever demands his attention from inside, anyway. 

His book snaps shut, although the fingers that lay entwined in Kartik’s hair don’t budge. He brushes his thumb over his boyfriend’s cool forehead, leans down slowly and presses a gentle kiss into the temple of the man lying asleep beside him.

The whispering gets quieter, but it’s still there.

The intimidatingly large book is set aside for good, and Aman lets his hands shift their focus to the mask that adorns his lover’s eyes. He fiddles with it once, twice, before gently raising Kartik’s head and slipping it off with ease. 

The mask lingers on his fingers, for a few seconds, while his mind ponders the possibilities of Aman finding someone so beautiful to spend his life with.

Beautiful, both inside and out.

And the mask only serves to symbolise that.

* * *

_“What are you reading?” Kartik asked softly, his eyes far too exhausted to make out the words on Aman’s behemoth of a book. He could make out the face on the cover as the one belonging to oscar wilde, but that did not help much._

_Aman, much like other oscar wilde enthusiasts, had at least 4 books with the man’s face on it._

_“Dorian Gray, again?”_

_Aman laughed lightly. He’d read that at least thrice in the two months since he’d bought it._

_“No,” He pushed his glasses further up his nose, “complete works wala book. Keshav's gift."_

_Kartik sighed. Not quite in disapproval._

_“So it’s a mask night?”_

_Aman nodded, not bothering to take his eyes off the page. Didn’t bother then, didn’t bother when he heard Kartik rooting around for his eye mask in the bedside cabinet. Didn't bother when he knocked over the photo frame on it, adorably clumsy as ever._

_He did look up, however, when a sleepy Kartik nudged his nose against Aman’s, wordlessly asking for a kiss._

_A kiss which Aman was only too happy to give him._

_“Goodnight,” Kartik mumbled softly, having received what he wanted. He pushed himself onto his elbow with all the grace of a wet mop, and collapsed bonelessly into his pillow. He was out almost instantly._

_Aman’s fingers found his hair not three minutes later_

* * *

It isn’t the first time Kartik has done this. 

Being helplessly in love with Aman meant that he had to simply make do with the bedroom lights being on even at ungodly hours, on some nights. Those were the nights Kartik would go to sleep with the mask on, and Aman would take it off him before turning the lights off, just as sleep began to claim him too. 

It was the perfect solution. Simple, elegant, and yet heart renderingly beautiful all the same. 

At the roots, yes, it was just another compromise, just another part of a healthy relationship. But the mere fact that Kartik’s first reaction was to make a difference in his own nightly routine, rather than force Aman to change his- it never ceased to blow him away. 

Aman hadn’t known consideration like this until Kartik.

He marvels at how an action so simple could mean something so significant. 

The glasses are placed gently on the table next to him, right alongside the mask. His fingers find the switch on the wall behind him and flick it off, and It’s in that moment of peaceful darkness that Aman comes to a staggering realisation.

The questions have been wrong this entire time.

It has never, ever been “Is the pain worth it?”

It’s always been, and always will be, “Is Kartik worth the pain?”

He feels his heart adopt a gentle smile, and his lips soon follow.

_So I’m right?_ Aman asks, despite knowing full well that he is.

_Yes_ , says a familiar voice. And this time, it doesn’t send a chill down his spine or put tremors in his limbs. Quite the contrary, in fact. 

The second Aman hears the voice, he feels a sort of pleasant buzzing in his nerves. One that he recognises from years ago, when he woke up next to Kartik after their first night together and realised it hadn’t all been a dream.

_So tell me_ , the voice asks again, uncharacteristically demure this time. Like it’s finally about to be put to rest, having achieved its purpose once and for all. Like one word, just one, and Aman’s consciousness would be spared of the years of uncertainty the voice had brought him.

_Is he worth it?_

If Aman would listen closely, he might even catch the slight relief in its tone.

Aman takes a moment before replying. Not because he’s hesitating. He sighs quietly, content with the mere knowledge that they all know the answer. 

His mind knows. His heart knows. He knows. The man lying peacefully asleep beside him, his face the very picture of serenity, knows better than them all.

Loving Kartik was not easy. Not because he was hard to love, or because Aman was incapable of love, or anything even a tenth as bleak. 

Tragic, yes. But not bleak.

It was the circumstances under which they were forced to exist. Hiding every part of their sinless crime. Living in the shadows. Being forced to stomach the fact that the cost of their happiness was almost too high. 

It was simple. They were two men in love. Desperately so, to the extent that they were more than willing to brave any adversity that dared to keep the two apart.

But _simple_ hardly ever meant _easy._

His eyes drift to the photo frame that sits on their bedside table. It isn’t a picture of them, as one would expect. The frame bears a newspaper clipping. It’s an article from two months ago, one dated sixth september 2018, although Aman feels like that historic moment that changed their lives for the better occurred only yesterday. Funny how time flies

They love more freely, now. Aman’s hand finds Kartik’s more often when they’re out in public. His arms wrap around Kartik’s waist more boldly. The kisses behind their local club still don’t last very long, but they end in laughter rather than fear.

The voice nudges at him gently.

_Well?_

He’s about to answer, but he’s beaten to it.

_He is,_ his besotted heart answers in his stead.

_Of course he is._

And this time, to his utmost surprise, he finds the voice agreeing.

**Author's Note:**

> Aman is 60% sof, 40% anxiety, and 100% homo (twice the man you'll ever be)
> 
> This is as different from my usual writing style as possible. I hope y'all liked it <3


End file.
